


For the Taste of Claret

by Urbisa



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Forbidden Interests, Gore, Potential for additional chapters, The Hunter is written to be fairly neutral in appearance/gender, seriously though, there's a lot of blood, this may change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25717126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urbisa/pseuds/Urbisa
Summary: The carriage ride had been uncomfortable, to say the least. However, the future Hunter thought, it was a fair price to play in return for salvation from their illness. Yet as they arrive in the moonlit streets of cursed Yharnam, something darker than mere sickness begins to brew within them; a dawning hunger, almost bestial in its barely stifled carnality.
Kudos: 4





	For the Taste of Claret

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short scribble I wrote one dark and stormy night. Will I continue and add more chapters later? Maybe, maybe not, depends on what sort of reception this gets :)

In all my years, I had never seen a fouler city. The nauseating stench of incense, excrement and smog blanketed the streets of Yharnam like a suffocating blanket, threatening to seep into my lungs and smother me as I slept. Even the carriage driver’s muttered advice of wearing a damp cloth about my mouth had done little to stop the deep, hacking cough that even now tore my throat and lungs to ribbons.

And that’s not even mentioning the scent of blood. I had caught a hint of it upon arriving in the city- that metallic odour had caught my attention almost instantly, like a grating note on a cello in the middle of an orchestra. I, however, brushed it off as merely the faint olfactory signpost of some nearby slaughterhouse, pushing the gathering storm of discomfort to the back of my mind.

I had hoped (now I recognise this hope as the product of blind naivety, however at the time I was not yet aware of the brewing horror that awaited me) that the dizzying, intoxicating stench of blood would fade as the carriage wound deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine network of roads, alleyways and squares that is Yharnam, perhaps spurred on by a vain hope that the horrors of blood and gore could not- would not have followed me here. But as the standoffish carriage driver carried me ever closer to my destination, the fragrance of claret only ever grew more maddeningly present; the orchestra of olfactory sensations was now overwhelmed by the crescendoing tide of blood-possessed cellos, the crooning screech of strings being sawed and plucked echoing through my mind as I tried, nay, fought to regain focus on the here and now...

We had arrived. As the silver full moon hung low above our heads, I stepped from the carriage- mind still abuzz with sanguine visions as I nodded along absentmindedly to the carriage drivers barely audible mumblings. In a haze, I retrieved what little luggage I had brought with me (a spare change of clothes, a set of personal journals and novels, a framed portrait to place beside me as I sleep; no more than modest creature comforts) and bid my driver a half-hearted farewell. As I stood on the side of the moonlit street, watching the shoddy carriage disappear into the thick mists of Yharnam, I found myself repeating one simple question to myself; a single query echoing through my mind like a choir of nervous, easily-panicked spectators.

What on earth had possessed me to come here?

Of course, I knew the why- vague, hazy rumours of healers working miracles in Yharnam had been circulating the neighbouring lands for decades, with the medically inconvenienced, terminally ill, and dying alike all making the treacherous journey northwards to seek salvation in that mystery-shrouded city. Few if any would ever come back, and even fewer would ever speak of what had happened to them in the City of Blood. Virtually all of those poor souls who did return to the lives they had left would turn up missing or dead within a month, their disappearances fast becoming a point of local legend and frenzied gossip.

Had I taken the choice to come to Yharnam lightly? Nay, I knew the rumours as well as anyone else. Yet, my illness was spreading at an alarming rate, and with every passing day, I drew ever closer to the yawning abyss of Death, her cold, consuming touch threatening to claim me far before my time.

In such a situation, with fear as my only counsel, I made my preparations, said my farewells, and departed with barely another word to those I loved.

With the crack of a carriage driver’s whip, I was snapped from my revelry in an instant, once again finding myself in that grim, blood-scented street with nary a glimmer of an idea of where I was. Leaning on my walking cane, I turned around to take in my surroundings, or at least what little of my surroundings that I could see through the dense, clinging fogs.

Past the far side of the street on which myself and all my worldly belongings had been unceremoniously discarded, I spied the flickering orange flames of gas lights high above and far away, barely visible through the Yharnam miasma. This string of gas lamps must be part of some elevated road of some sort, perhaps a bridge, aqueduct or another form of a large structure. My ignorance aside, I resolved to return here when the fog had lifted- my own innate, wild curiosity would not let my mind go unharried my wandering thoughts of imaginative fancy if I did not find for certain the nature of those lights in the fog.

Turning my gaze back to where I stood, I noticed for the first time a cast-iron gate looming over me. Vertical bars longer than I am tall would’ve given the impression of gaol bars, were it not for the swirling filigree patterns that mounted the zenith of the gate, like a crown resting upon the head of some metal queen. Beyond the gate, I could just about make out a small courtyard of some description, framed on either side by tall, leafless trees. The dead sentinels of the gate seemed almost skeletal, their uppermost branches swaying in the stale Yharnam wind like the inverted legs of a hanged man.

Past the courtyard, my groggy eyes could see a rather opulent, fine building emerging from the very edge of the fog. Expertly crafted stonework covered the edifice, with statuary of all descriptions looming from the building like petrified monsters, grasping desperately into the air for salvation. A tad grim perhaps, but still possessed of a modicum of macabre beauty. Above a similarly beautiful front door, I spotted a handwritten sign, the lettering painted in delicate cursive that seemed almost completely at odds with the haunting architecture of the building on which it was emblazoned. Through the fog, I had to take a few long seconds to be able to read the sign’s text in full:

═══-═══-═══-═※═-═══-═══-═══

**Iosefka’s Clinic**

**_Blood Transplantations Available_  
Inquire Within**

═══-═══-═══-═※═-═══-═══-═══

I suppose my quietly withdrawn carriage driver had been worth a lick of salt all along, for it would appear he had delivered me straight to where I had needed to go.

Lifting my bag from the ground and slinging it over my back, I approached the main gate to the clinic’s courtyard, placing my free hand upon the cold metal to push it open. Instead of the smooth, unflinching metal though, I instead felt something wet meet my grasp. Pulling my hand away with instinctual disgust brimming at the edge of my mind, I glanced over my hand to see what foreign matter I had unwittingly stuck my ungloved fingers into.

Dark, partially coagulated blood coated my flesh like a second skin, the oozing fluid glistening slightly in the light of a nearby gas lamp. I reflexively grimaced, moving to wipe my hand upon my coat before continuing inside. Yet, my body ignored the screamed orders of my mind as I instead found myself marvelling at the crimson claret that covered my hand; like an aristocrat staring at a freshly poured glass of the finest red wine, my gaze was locked firmly upon the blood that had begun to trickle down my wrist in thick, black lumps, staining my white linen shirt that all-too-familiar shade of scarlet as it went.

For the first time since I had arrived in Yharnam, I had become conscious of my heart’s implacable beat, like the war drums of an ancient army marching to war. Yet as my eyes remained locked onto the thick, cold blood with an intensity usually alien to me, I could feel the war march within my chest increasing in rapidity, a leisurely stroll fast becoming a furious sprint. Slowly, gently, as if I was trying to hide my own actions even from myself, I felt my head drifting closer to my hand which, in turn, drew closer to my mouth.

What was happening to me? My mind swirled as thoughts came unbidden, an unrelenting deluge of visions and feelings foreign to me: tongues smearing blood across blushed skin; wicked sharp blades carving crimson crevasses from which geysers of claret came spurting out in glorious fountains of gore; the taste of iron blossoming from the lips of a lover. This wasn’t me, it couldn’t be me, yet…

As my hand reached only a few slim inches from my face, I could feel my breath upon my skin- through the gore that by now had coated my entire forearm, I felt my sharp breaths warming my skin. This close, the fragrance of the thick, sumptuous claret was almost completely overwhelming, far thicker and heavier than even the strongest of wines back home. My mouth grew wet unbidden, my thirsty tongued prowling around my begging lips like a predator circling its prey.

…

What harm? What harm could a single taste do?

Tentatively, I brought the palm of my hand to my mouth, sticking out my tongue to probe at the gore that coated my blood-stained arm. Barely a touch, but it was enough, and as my tongue stalked back to it’s dark, moist lair with its new bounty, I relaxed somewhat.

And then the taste hit me. I had expected that familiar metallic taste again- dull, slightly cold, blood, as I had tasted by accident through injury or misfortune in the past. However, this…

This was sweet. Like the rich, velvety syrup I had indulged in during my years at university, this partially coagulated claret was silky smooth and saccharine. Closing my eyes with brimming, forbidden pleasure, my tongue almost reflexively circled the interior of my mouth, seeking to mop up every single last drop of the decadently delicious blood.

As I swallowed, I opened my eyes, yet as my gaze refocused on my crimson-soaked hand, something had changed. A shiver ran up my spine as I felt a new hunger within me, my sight tinged with a burgeoning appetite that had awoken deep inside me with that first taste of forbidden fruit. Never before had I realised just how hungry I was, just how hungry I had always been for the blood.

“This isn’t me!”, I felt some part of my psyche scream, and for a moment I paused as a sort of post-coital miasma washed over my tumultuous mind. Here I was, in the middle of a foreign, rumour-shadowed city, cast off on the curb outside a medical clinic. Gods above, I had only been here for a few minutes, and already I was licking coagulated blood off of gates.

A dozen frenzied thoughts rush through my head as my fleeting sense of reality wrestles control back from my curious hunger. Has the illness finally claimed my sanity? Did the carriage driver drug me for some perceived slight? Or has the fabled madness of Yharnam already sunk its claws into me? Or-

Or…

The blood glistens in the gaslight, as though it’s begging for me to marvel at its beauty. 

Or…

It shimmers and shines like a beacon, calling… nay, singing to me.

…

…

What harm could another taste do?

Dropping my walking cane to the floor, my hunger roars in triumph. Like a beast unchained, my agape, panting mouth rushes towards the crimson-stained flesh of my hand, drooling tongue fighting with itself to lap up every last precious drop of that sweet blood. The fury of my onslaught frightens even me- there is something almost bestial in it, as though some long-imprisoned monster within me has finally been let loose.

But I don’t care.

My sleeve hides the blood from me, so with clenched fists, I tear the cloth from my arm like a desperately vain leper ripping bandages from sealed wounds, desperate to see what lies beneath. With reckless abandon, my tongue spirals and curls around my flesh, scooping up coagulated lumps of claret and gulping them down with a rapaciousness limited only by the ragged gasps of air that punctuate my frenzied feasting.

And then it’s over, as quickly as it began.

I stood there, my arm coated with saliva as I wiped the drying viscera from around my mouth. My satiated tongue purrs in unison with the newborn hunger, and as the tide of sated starvation recedes, a new wave of dawning realisation and understanding crashes upon the shores of my mind.

“What…” My voice is hoarse, barely more than a cracked whisper as I stare disbelieving at my hand. “What have I done?”

I sway in the wind, my mind fogging and my eyes beginning to droop and grow heavy as the edges of my vision grow dark. Reflexively, my fingers tense around my cane, but come up empty- out the corner of my misty vision, I can see the faint outline of my discarded cane lying upon the street.

Light-headed, I fall to my knees, barely even registered the shot of pain through my knee and up my leg, my already weak bones crying out in agony under the force of the fall. As my consciousness leaves me, I reach out for the gate, hoping to find some sudden salvation in it blood-soaked iron.

I fight to retain consciousness with all my might, but it’s clear to me that it’s a losing battle. I crumple forward into the cobblestones like an ancient tower finally collapsing under its own weight, the fall knocking the wind out of me as I grunt in pain. The ground beneath me is slick with blood, and in my fragile semi-consciousness, it takes every remaining ounce of my mental strength to prevent myself from trying to lick up the dregs of impure claret that resides in the dark cracks between filthy cobblestones.

As the darkness finally encroaches upon my vision, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Past the cast-iron gate and the courtyard beyond, a blurry shape that could conceivably be a door is thrown open, the crash of its wooden form impacting into the surrounding statuary muffled only by my fading awareness. Stepping from the darkness beyond, I see a figure draped in pure white robes dash from the clinic in a full sprint, like the ancient angels of myth descending from the heavens above to claim the wretched.

And with that, my consciousness fails me, and I am cast adrift on the blood-dark oceans of my mind.


End file.
